Angles
by MaskedPhoenix
Summary: The best (in my opinion) Kat and Patrick moments which you'll recognise from the show, but from different perspectives. There'll be approximately one scene from each episode, but not always. Hope you enjoy :)
1. First stare

He's caught somewhere between whittling a pattern on a stick with his knife and watching that arty fat girl spray-painting some pattern on a column when hears confident footsteps and looks up to see that unbelievably good-looking brunette chick from this morning stride right past him. She saunters over to the artist girl and is speaking to her as he looks her up and down. Very nice, he thinks. I'll have that one.

She seems cool, too – she's not going to grass on the artist girl, one of the few people around here besides him who wouldn't – and she's confident and friendly, hopping up onto the wall and saying boldly, "What's your name?" And she's clever and witty, he realises, as she goes on to say, "When you're a big-time artist I want to be able to say I knew you back in high school. Provided you're not in jail for vandalism."

He doesn't hear what the fat girl says (he guesses that she's a little overwhelmed by this impressive show of confidence) but he sees the brunette smile and then she says, "Kat."

Kat. Good name. Cool girl.

She's wearing a purple t-shirt which hangs slightly off her right shoulder, exposing black straps and an expanse of lightly tanned skin which looks soft and smooth and he just wants to run his tongue over it and leave marks up and down the rest of her body, which is probably just as soft and smooth . . . There are some good tits there, too, under that t-shirt – he's sure of it, and he's had enough experience to be able to tell.

Time to turn it up.

She catches him staring, just as he intended. God, she's a looker.

She stares right back. Wow.

"Mandella," she's saying as she holds his gaze, "who is Captain Intensity over there?"

He's not sure he likes that. He wants her to be stunned and silenced so that he can throw her onto the back of his bike and have his way without her being annoying. He doesn't want her to challenge him. He wants her to be impressed, like the other girls always are. He looks away, slightly irritated. The artist girl is talking, probably reeling out all of the stupid rumours about his cannibalism, but when he hears her speak again she doesn't sound shocked. Quite the contrary – she sighs, sounding bored. "Pur-lease," she says. "He's trying to act mysterious so he can get laid."

Wow, he thinks. This is new.

He hears her as she jumps down from the wall and says, "Watch." He looks up and she's striding towards him, and oh Lord what a walk that is – all hips and hair and defiant stare, and then she's standing just a few feet away, daring him, challenging him.

She has her hands on her hips and she's cocking her head slightly, eyebrows raised, waiting for him to give up, to look away. But he can't right now because he's kind of mesmerised, partly by how damned _hot_ this girl is and partly by this streak of determination and confidence which just floors him. He's stopped breathing a little. He has never been so amazed by a girl before.

Part of him wants to beg for her number and part of him wants to run and hide from this sudden, almost irrepressible longing (he imagines her hair must feel so silky, her ass firm and round, her legs slender and strong . . .). But he ignores this rush and holds her gaze, just a bit longer, but by god if he doesn't get out of here and clear his head he's either going to jump her or jizz in his pants, neither of which would be conducive to getting her to want to know him. And he's shocked when he realises that he doesn't just mean in the biblical sense. He wants to find out what makes this girl tick.

Her eyes are dark, sparkling, and he wonders if up close they're the same shade of chocolate brown as he imagines them to be.

She's not going to break the stare. She's not struggling. He can tell because the artist girl mutters that they should go but she ignores it, sassy and gorgeous, staring him down, making him feel exhausted and he's barely holding on now.

If he walks away now she might think he's weak. But he has to, he can't keep going – for the first time ever he's been beaten. He'll find a way to make it up.

So he stands up with as much composure as he can muster, turns his back, and heads back towards the courtyard. His breathing returns and he pushes open the door of the men's. His thoughts run slowly, like treacle.

_What a girl_.


	2. The Flower of Carnage

She smirks as she checks the photographs that she's been taking for the last ten minutes of pathetic weeping teenagers. She hasn't been sent a carnation herself, and that's fine, honestly – she's hardly made any friends whilst she's been here, and besides, getting one would mean she'd have to get excited about something as insignificant as a stupid flower and a guy, and that's so not her thing.

And yet . . . Mandella mentioned that Patrick Verona had bought one. She shouldn't think about it, and she's probably wrong, but she's sure that when he raised his eyebrows at her this morning he was deliberately trying to wind her up, trying to get a rise, another acknowledgement since that stare-off on the first day of school.

Admittedly, as he had another floozy pressed up against the lockers. She grits her teeth and is satisfied by the fact that she knows they won't last long. One or two shags maximum, she presumes.

Yes. She mustn't think about him. That carnation was for his next conquest.

And then she can't help thinking of his lips on her neck or his hand between her legs . . .

And then she pulls herself together. _Get a grip_.

She sits at her desk, flicking through the photos, and then she glances up. And she is startled. There's a flower. Jesus. It's lying on her bag. Could it possibly be for her?

She can't help smiling just a little for excitement as she picks it up, maybe just a quick intake of breath. It's red – really? Someone with a crush already?

_Could it be from him?_

She turns over the label.

_ TO: KAT_

_ FROM: LOOK BEHIND YOU._

If her brain could make noises all by itself, it would be squeaking with anticipation as she turns. She kind of gets it now – she's almost beginning to understand why these flower sale things are a big deal. Because when you actually do get sent one, it feels really nice.

She prepares to get her flirt on for whoever's behind her.

_Please_, murmurs a tiny part of her brain, _let it be him_.

She shoves the thought away and decides she'll smile for whomsoever it may be.

And then she changes her mind as the Perv oils up to her and says, "I showed you my flower, now you show me yours."

She's beyond pissed and, if only she'd admit it to herself, she's beyond disappointed. She's remembering why these flower sales suck. She wants to go home and cry.

"Leave. Me. Alone."

She swings her bag over her shoulder, chucks the stupid flower at the crying girl and storms out of the room and down the corridor. _God, high school sucks_.

* * *

Back in home room, he's kicking himself as he watches her leave. What was the sodding point? Why the fuck did he pussy out last minute? He was so ready, knew just what he was going to say – and then that walk, the hips and the hair, the smirk, her confidence and beauty – and he was overwhelmed again, beyond intimidated like he's never been before.

Now he's sitting here at the front of the bloody classroom and she still doesn't know – hell, they haven't even had a conversation yet and he's been longing to talk to her for two weeks.

Shit. He's really got to get his act together. She's too brilliant to not even try.

He's also really tempted to beat up that annoying Charlie kid. But he won't. If he does he'll get detention and that might interfere with any plans.

He'll leave it to someone else. That kid's got it coming to him.


	3. I'm Gonna Take You to My Show Tonight

She's wearing a Filthy Souls t-shirt. _Christ_, he thinks, _I've got to have this girl_.

She's almost passed him in the doorway when he remembers that he's wearing his, too – what a stroke of luck. He hasn't had a chance to actually say anything decent to her yet. And, better luck still, there's the gig tonight. Maybe she's going – maybe that's why she's wearing the t-shirt (he's trying to avoid thinking about how ridiculously wound-up he is over this chick). _Anyways_, he thinks,_ it's worth a shot_.

Got to make an impact. He blocks her path and says, "I need to show you something."

She doesn't miss a beat. "Careful," she says, "that's borderline sexual harassment." And she sweeps right past. She doesn't even glance at him.

But he will not be deterred. Two can play this game.

"Only borderline? Clearly I'm not working hard enough."

That's got her. She turns around to face him, sarcastic smile, dark hair, long legs, tanned skin. God, the things he'd do to her.

He lifts up his jumper – his t-shirt is sticking to it, dammit, but it'll give her an eyeful of his hard work for the past couple of years so it's no problem. True enough, once he's pulled the jumper over his head her eyes are fixed on the spot where his abs were a moment ago, and where there is now a Filthy Souls slogan scrawled across his chest. And she's not smiling anymore, so she was definitely checking him out.

"Same shirts," he says, with a slightly sarcastic smile because he knows that this is not a high point for his wit.

"Wow, two things that match. Pretty soon you'll be reading." Hmm. The attitude is bitchy, but kind of sexy. She's escaping, though. Quick.

"So you know about their show tonight?"

That seems to have her. She pauses. "Of course," she says, in the most unconvincing tone he's ever heard. Ha! She doesn't know! Excellent. Time for the Return of the Dazzling Wit.

"That's strange," he says as he walks towards her, "Typically, pretty girls are very good liars."

She turns and opens her mouth to throw in her own comment, but he's not going to give her a chance. He can't miss this opportunity – it's too perfect. "Here," he says, pulling out a pen. He grabs her arm – skin so smooth, so warm, slender, gorgeous – and scribbles in fat black letters. "The club is called Live Bait. Of course, you'll need a fake ID." He smiles patronisingly, because it's fun when she annoyed. Then he lets go of her. It takes a little effort, if he's honest, but he doesn't want to push it. _Keep it short and snappy_, he thinks. He begins to push past her.

But she's not having it. He turns back to face her as she seizes his arm – hands so small, so delicate, warm, light – _she's going to drive me nuts_, he thinks. There's just something about her.

Even better, she's turned up the attitude again. In fact, she's pissed. "And you," she says, snatching the pen out of his hand and scribbling on him. His eyes are fixed on her face – her pretty, pretty face, doe eyes and straight brows and full, pink lips – but he glances down as she says, "need some manners."

She's written the word MANNERS on his arm in messy, angry letters. Just like her. Sexy, like her.

She holds the pen out and he takes it automatically, and when she lets go of his arm she leaves his skin tingling and warm. Then he watches her walk away, strong and fast and powerful. Her hair swishes behind her. She really does knock him over.

She's shown no sign of interest, except that one brief moment when he called her pretty and a slight smile was playing on her lips. Maybe she won't come to the concert. Maybe he really did piss her off by writing on her arm. Maybe she doesn't care.

It'd be the first time. He's never felt so nervous about a girl before.

_Get a grip, Patrick_, he thinks. _It's only a girl, dammit_.

But she's not. He knows she's not. She's something else. And he really, really hopes she can get hold of a fake ID before tonight.


End file.
